Gravity
by Yaoi no Megami
Summary: What will the Boy Who Lived do when the very darkness he tried so desperately to escape returns with a vengeance to tear at the crevices of his mind, ravage his body, and engulf his very soul? PreHBP. Eventual HPDM.
1. Please, Save Me

**T**itle: Gravity

**A**uthor: Yaoi no Megami

**R**ating: R

**D**isclaimer: I don't own it. Get over it.

**W**ord Count: 3,788

**S**ummary: What will the Boy Who Lived do when the very darkness he tried so desperately to escape returns with a vengeance to tear at the crevices of his mind, ravage his body, and engulf his very soul? PreHBP. Eventual HPDM.

**W**arnings: Torture, Non-consensual sex/rape …

**N**otes: Please, I beg of you, go to my **livejournal** because it's my baby. XD The link is in my profile. I'm looking for an editor/beta if anyone's interested! I like to have more than one on hand… because mine tend to disappear. Thanks go to **_MistressNashyamy_** for providing the structure of the non-con scene. Two spells in Latin, easy to figure out if you pay attention. I don't actually know Latin… so you know the drill.

**_ Immotus_**_ – motionless recipient cannot move_

**_ Incruente_**_ – without blood shed used to clot blood, stop blood flow_

-:- .:. -:- _Please do this now, I beg— Duct tape my arms and legs, throw me into the sea…_ -:- .:. -:-

**Chapter One: Please, Save Me **

Harry's eyes fluttered open slowly, confusion clouding his mind when a fuzzy world stared back at him. Sprawled out on the cold stone floor, a definite sense of exhaustion began to register as waves of nausea passed over him. He blindly reached out into the shadows surrounding him, searching for his glasses.

Where the hell was he…?

His fingers stilled at a sharp twinge of pain— he'd cut his finger on a jagged shard of broken glass. His breath quickened, trepidation filling him as he stretched his fingers out farther to grasp the frame of his glasses. Harry warily held his glasses up to the light to survey the damage. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration; one lens was cracked beyond recognition and the other was completely missing from the bent frame. With a heavy sigh he set them aside, mindful of the broken glass.

Watching the way the shadows of the room seemed to move around him, squinting as he slowly scanned the barren walls. Without his glasses he couldn't see a door in the cramped room— all the walls looked the same. His eyes lingered on the sunlight streaming through a small, barred window on the other side of the room. Seeing how there wasn't much light in the room, Harry could only guess that it was still quite early. A fuzzy patch of grass at the base of the window indicated that he was in a basement somewhere.

He struggled to push himself into a sitting position against the nearest wall. He could feel the chill of the stone wall seeping through his thin shirt, causing a shiver to run unpleasantly down his spine. Breathing heavily from the effort, Harry finally became conscious of the weight around his right ankle and peered down at his leg. Harry strained to pull his leg closer, cringing at the scraping sound of metal against the floor. In dismay he pulled at the shackle, a futile attempt to remove the rusty chains. His eyes followed the length of the chain to the bolt securing it to the wall. His eyes narrowed at the revelation that someone actually had the gall to chain him up like some kind of _animal_. In vain he tried to suppress the sense of panic settling in the pit of his stomach, thoughts racing through his mind as his claustrophobia began to set in. His chest tightened uncomfortably, erratic breathing seemed entirely too loud in his almost frantic state— being forced to live in a cupboard for 10 years could do that to you.

Cradling his head in his trembling hands Harry tried desperately to remember how he'd ended up in the unfamiliar room. Only a Death Eater would pull such a stunt, but Harry refused to even _think_ of the possibilities his current train of thought was bringing him…

The audible click of a lock from the far side for the room cut his thoughts short and his hands hastily dropped to his sides, rhythmic pounding of his heart thundering in his head. He waited for the door to open in silence as his gaze shifted towards the source of the noise. The door swung open soundlessly, shoes clicking loudly on the floor as a figure clad in black strode in confidently, easily blending in with the shadows of the room.

It was a man; that much was obvious. From Harry's spot on the floor he seemed particularly tall. He could tell the man had broad shoulders though he hid it well with his layered robes. If he squinted he could just make out creamy white skin of his chest peeking through the top of his robes. Nevertheless, the loss of his glasses coupled with dark, hooded cloak made it impossible to tell exactly who had just stepped inside the cramped room.

"Finally awake are we, Mr. Potter?" A voice questioned smoothly. The figure kneeled before him and gripped his chin forcefully, tilting his face toward the sunlight which was gradually illuminating the room. "You're even more beautiful in person… Master will be pleased."

Harry mentally cursed his terrible luck; dread instantly filled him at the implications. "And who exactly is your master?"

Of course, he already knew the answer to his question— that's what scared him. It wasn't so much the prospect of being handed over to Voldemort on a silver platter. He knew what he could expect from Voldemort. An unknown Death Eater, however, was another matter in itself.

"The Dark Lord," here he paused, smile adorning his face in mock joy. "But you already knew that didn't you?" Harry gathered what little strength he had to smack the offending hand away, glaring defiantly at the blurry face above him.

His smile only widened in what appeared to be pleasure, "Feisty aren't we? Not to worry, Harry, I love a challenge… we'll have _lots_ of fun before the Dark Lord gets his hands on you." He reached out again to run his fingers through Harry's unruly hair.

Harry's blood ran cold at this unexpected announcement, he didn't dare think of what the statement might mean. "Don't **_touch_** me." He tried to calm his erratic breathing, not trusting his voice enough to say anything more.

Despite Harry's protests he continued stroking his hair softly, "You'll get used to it… after all, you'll be here for a _very _long time." Again he smiled, lightly caressing Harry's cheek. Harry was outraged when the man's lips brushed against his for the briefest of moments, but he was too exhausted to retaliate. "_Stupefy_." Harry barely caught the whisper, anger ebbing away as he slipped into unconsciousness watching the hazy figure stand to leave the room with half-lidded eyes.

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

**_Vindicated: Interlude _**

_He walked up the winding staircase with his shoes clicking sharply against the cold stone floor as he made his way through the maze of hallways purely on memory. Slipping through a small passageway hidden behind a tapestry, he found himself standing before a set of vast double doors in the secluded corridor. He made sure to knock to announce his presence before entering the dimly lit room, dropping to his knee in a bow of respect. _

_"Michael." The figure clad in black acknowledged. _

_"You summoned me, My Lord?" He quickly rose from his bow with an aura of confidence surrounding him, though his expression was blank. He peeked through his bangs to eye the Dark Lord warily, carefully avoiding looking him directly in the eye. He sat in a chair that closely resembled a throne in the center of the room, dressed in black robes from head toe. His hideous face was shrouded with shadows— something Michael was quite grateful for. Just because he supported his beliefs didn't mean he wanted to look at that repulsive excuse for a man on a daily basis. _

_"Have your plans to capture the boy been set in motion?" Voldemort hissed, his red eyes almost glowing due to the lack of light. _

_"Would you expect any less of me?" Michael paused at Voldemort's scathing glare. He was obviously not amused. "Things are going exceptionally well; I'll see to it that you have him before the end of the year." _

_"I will hold you to that. I don't care what you do with the boy so long as he ends up _here_." _

_"Of course, My Lord." Michael bowed once more to hide the small grin adorning his face. _

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

Harry stirred in his sleep, trying to shift from his uncomfortable position on the plush bed beneath him. With his wrists aching unpleasantly and mind still foggy with sleep he blinked in confusion at his discomfort. His eyes snapped open with a startled gasp when a hand abruptly began traveling up the length of his leg. Harry struggled to escape his grasp only to realize his arms were bound to the headboard of the bed he was currently lying on.

Under the light filtering through of the small window, Harry could finally see the face of the man holding him captive. With high cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose, some would call him beautiful. His silky straight hair was the color of caramel and delicately framed his amethyst eyes. Instead of black robes, this time he was clad in a skin-tight cashmere sweater and simple black slacks.

"W-What're you doing?"

An undercurrent of fear passed through him, claustrophobia beginning to overload his senses once more. Harry thrashed about, trying to dislodge the hand presently caressing his thigh.

"Don't struggle… it'll only make it worse." He smiled up at Harry— a smile that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Harry lay motionless against his instincts, knowing that moving would only make a bad situation worse. Trying not to move only served to feed the growing feeling of alarm welling up in his chest, making it considerably harder to breath. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he watched the man pull a knife out of his robes before climbing onto the bed to straddle him. Harry watched with wide eyes as the man began to leisurely cut through the material of his shirt, making certain that the blade nicked Harry's chest more than once just to see him flinch. Harry's breath hitched and he fervently struggled against the bindings around his arms.

He hated to admit he was panicking. He would much rather face Voldemort _any day_. At least Harry knew what to expect from him.

Without warning, warm lips roughly descended upon his own before a warm tongue forcefully invaded his mouth. Harry did the only thing he could think of at the moment. A harsh bite caused warm, tangy fluid to trickle into his mouth. Once the Death Eater pulled away to wipe the blood from the corner of his mouth Harry spit out the metallic liquid, glaring all the while,.

"So that's how you want it?"

Harry didn't have time to respond before the bonds holding his right arm were being untied. Putting his confusion aside for a moment, Harry poured all at his strength into slapping him. A resounding smack echoed throughout the small room. Amethyst eyes darkened with fury for an instant, but the emotion was gone so quickly Harry thought his mind might be playing tricks on him.

"_Immotus_."

Harry looked up, alarmed, when his arm dropped to his stomach lifelessly— like it was made of lead. Try as he might, Harry couldn't so much as twitch his fingers. Harry watched with apprehension as the man grasped the handle of knife once more, pressing it none too gently against the delicate skin of Harry's inner forearm. His eyes stung fiercely, but he stubbornly refused to shed a single tear… he wouldn't give him the pleasure. Harry felt the blade digging into his flesh in an unorthodox pattern, blood seeping into the once pristine sheets beneath him. Minutes stretched into hours for Harry— each moment more agonizing than the last.

At long last his once unmarred forearm was propped up for him to see the bloody mess it had become.

It read... Michael.

"Now you're mine… and there's nothing you can do about it." He smirked, casting Harry's flaccid arm aside before capturing his lips in a brutal kiss. He moaned into Harry's mouth, one hand tangled in his hair while the other wandered down the length of his body. Harry's eyes slid shut in silent shame, a single tear rolling down his cheek. He'd been branded like some animal… like a fucking _possession_.

"_Incruente_." A cold draft hovered over his arm for a few seconds and the blood ceased to flow, leaving goose bumps on the now blood caked skin.

Harry gasped harshly for air the moment he pulled away; after losing so much blood darkness was starting to eat away at the edges of his vision. Harry felt sick when slender fingers brushed against his cheek. He drew in a shaky breath— this couldn't be happening.

"You're so beautiful." The words were murmured against his lips softly before a warm tongue found its way inside his mouth once more.

Uncomfortably hot lips moved to his jaw line and began trailing down his throat before Harry knew what was happening. Another tear slipped from beneath his eyelids as Harry winced when the man bit down hard at the juncture between his neck and his shoulder before something began to trickle down his back.

He couldn't hold on any longer… he didn't _want_ to. Harry gratefully slipped into unconsciousness.

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

When Harry finally awoke he wasn't sure of his surroundings, or even how long he'd been lying there. Over the course of two days the pain from his arm dulled to a distant ache, easily overshadowed by the fierce throb of the more recent welts across his back.

Yesterday already seemed so long ago. Again he'd been reprimanded for daring to touch 'Michael.' This time he'd braved the sting of a whip for his actions until he was lying in a pool of his own blood. Driven to the brink of unconsciousness before Michael whispered, "_Incruente."_ He made quite a show of sneering at Harry, "Wouldn't want you to die on me now would I, Potter?" A few minutes of silence easily lulled Harry into a false sense of security. Just when Harry thought it was over, about to drift into sweet oblivion, he was jerked back by a searing pain from his fresh wounds… _salt_.

He did his best to ignore the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he stared thoughtlessly at the black ceiling, slowly coming back to himself. It had to be well into the evening already if the room was nearly pitch black. He shifted awkwardly before he hastily sat up, ignoring the wave of dizziness that engulfed him accompanied by the terrible burn of his gashes separating from the sheets, studying the room enveloped in darkness as best he could.

"Lie still."

Harry was startled by the voice that disturbed the tense silence before he recognized it as Michael's. Before he knew what was happening, he was being pushed smoothly back into a laying position. That's when he realized he'd been laying on the slightly familiar plush bed. Harry's eyes traveled the length of the hand which prevented him from moving. For the first time, Michael's arm was bare, and Harry took a moment to examine the dark tattoo which stood out proudly against the alabaster skin of Michael's forearm. Harry could've sworn the snake was hissing at him, daring him to touch the Death Eater's mark.

But perhaps he was just delirious. After all, he wasn't exactly being fed a feast every night, but it certainly wasn't any worse than staying with the Dursleys.

It was hard to ignore the position they were in— Michael was laying flush against Harry's own nude body, straddling him— and soon Harry found himself straining uncomfortably against the weight on top of him, choking back his disgust. Under the weight of the much larger man, he felt as if his ribs would break from the pressure. The wounds on his back only made it worse, not only because of the way they met with the sheets so painfully but also because, while no longer bleeding, the gashes still hurt as though he'd been whipped hours before. His uninjured arm was quickly pinned to the bed so Harry couldn't attack him like before. In his current state, Harry realized, even if his arm was free he was still much too weak to do defend himself. Of course his weakness was most likely Michael's intention in the first place.

"Shh… just relax."

His fingers ran through Harry's hair in what he guessed was supposed to be a soothing manner. From Harry's hair his fingers traveled down the length of his body to caress the slight curve of his hips before resting on his thigh.

Harry flinched away from his touch as if it burned him.

"Please… let me go…" Harry whispered softly, eyes wide with terror as tears welling up in his eyes at the thought of what was to come. Any pride he held before was certainly gone now, drowned in raw agony. "Don't… d-don't do this to me…" Harry pleaded, frantically trying to free his arm from Michael's tight grip. Michael only pressed harder against Harry in response, kissing him roughly. Harry whimpered into the kiss— if that's what you'd call it— despite himself. His back throbbed even more intensely now that he was being pressed so firmly into the mattress. While Michael forcefully explored his mouth, he started shifting in order to position his hips between Harry's.

Harry struggled frantically, doing everything in his power to stop him… but in the end it wasn't enough. Michael was just too strong and Harry was far too weak.

"Let me _go_!" Harry begged again when Michael finally pulled away long enough for him to speak, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. Staring into Michael's indifferent eyes, his expression told him everything he never wanted to know— everything he couldn't accept. He was telling him without saying a word…

_Just let it happen._

Harry choked on a sob before turning his gaze to the lone, fuzzy star visible through the small window, tears blurring his vision.

He wasn't going to stop.

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

Harry's eyes drifted shut, but he knew he wouldn't be falling asleep anytime soon.

5 times… how long had he been laying here?

A sharp metallic smell hung about the room, only rivaled by the stench of sex that weighed so heavily on his heart. A fresh wave of tears slid down his cheeks as he clutched the cold, damp sheets spread out beneath him. Harry slowly blinked, only getting a glimpse of the sheets before he clasped a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp. There was blood… **_everywhere_**.

Harry scrambled off the bed as quickly as he could on unsteady legs, trying to ignore the searing pain that invaded his senses as something trickled unpleasantly down his thigh. He swiftly wiped the tear streaks from his face, unknowingly smearing blood across his cheeks at the same time.

He needed to get out.

Noting the abandoned robe resting on the floor, he stumbled to his knees and carelessly rummaged through the inner pockets until his fingers brushed against the wand. Struggling to his feet, his hand began to shake as he pointed it at the prone figure on the bed. "_Stupefy_." Harry whispered, having lost his voice hours ago.

Surely it couldn't be this easy?

He clumsily dressed himself in the oversized robe— after all, his clothes were in shreds. The warm robe clung to his wounds but he chose to ignore it for the time being. Harry murmured a quick "_Reparo_," to the bent frame of his glasses, watching as they repaired themselves before slipping them on his face.

He leaned against the wall for support, contemplating the best way to escape. The most obvious route was the door, but what if more Death Eaters were waiting outside? Staring up at the window Harry wondered if he could slip through the small hole. He didn't even know what was outside. He never had much of a chance to look.

Hastily making a decision, he strode to the other side of the room and aimed the wand at the window. He tensely whispered the spell that would set him free, "_Diffindo_." In an instant the bars outside the window, as well as the fragile glass, were blown back several feet from the force of the spell. Harry swayed dangerously on his feet. He didn't have the energy to do this… he was so weak.

Walking back to the small window once more, he stuffed the wand back inside the inner pocket of the robe before reaching up to grasp the edge of the window sill. The remaining shards of glass dug into his skin, but Harry did his best to ignore the pain. Hauling himself up was the real task— it was difficult to support his own weight on his arms with so little energy. He wriggled through the small window as quickly as he could; he'd _obviously_ miscalculated the size of the window. Once he was outside he scrambled to his feet as quickly as his wounds would allow, trying to ignore the searing pain that shot through his body. He staggered slowly through the darkness, pain flaring with every step.

Needless to say, he never looked back. However, his strength was quickly leaving him. It almost made him wish he was back in the cramped room… lying on the lavish bed beside the window. He was so exhausted that all he wanted to do was give up— consequences be damned. The sun peeked lazily over the horizon; it offered him smallest bit of comfort and he walked steadily towards it.

He knew he couldn't go much farther— but he knew he had to try. He had to go somewhere he knew he could be easily spotted… by someone other than _Michael_. He unconsciously tugged on the sleeve clinging like a second skin to his open wounds, frowning when his hands came back bloody. For the next several minutes, the only audible sound in the plain before him was his own shallow breathing.

But then he saw something. He couldn't quite make it out even with his glasses, but in the dim light he could tell it was distinctly darker than the lush grass surrounding him. It became his goal, the only thing that pushed him forward as he tried his best to ignore the burning sensation of his arm. It was almost certainly infected by now.

Relief washed over him in soothing waves when he finally got close enough to see what he'd been walking towards for what seemed like forever. A muggle road. Someone was _bound_ to drive by here sooner or later. He settled for falling to his knees beside the pavement, frowning as his the darkness ate away at the corners of his vision; he could only guess it was from the blood loss. Harry fought to remain conscious. He didn't want to pass out and be left defenseless when he could so easily be captured again.

As the minutes slipped through his fingers slowly, his resolve ebbed away and his exhaustion mounted. He swayed precariously on his knees, determined to stay awake until he was _positive_ he was safe. Nevertheless he slipped into unconsciousness, glad to be able to escape reality… even if it was only for a little while.


	2. I Feel the Gravity of it All

**T**itle: Gravity

**A**uthor: Yaoi no Megami

**R**ating: R

**D**isclaimer: I don't own it. Get over it.

**W**ord Count: 4,014

**S**ummary: What will the Boy Who Lived do when the very darkness he tried so desperately to escape returns with a vengeance to tear at the crevices of his mind, ravage his body, and engulf his very soul? PreHBP. Eventual HPDM.

**W**arnings: Torture, Non-consensual sex/rape …

**N**otes: Please, I beg of you, go to my **livejournal** because it's my baby. The link is in my profile if you're interested. By the way,** _Attinet Sanitas _**means Pointless Sanity in Latin.

-:- .:. -:- _Are the memories I hold still valid… or have the tears deluded them? _-:- .:. -:-

**Chapter Two: I Feel the Gravity of it All…**

Harry couldn't sleep any longer after waking up in a cold sweat. It was a familiar feeling; his dreams were constantly plagued by nightmares of things he'd rather not remember at all. His eyes slowly fluttered open to stare at an excessively bright ceiling of a room that was decidedly _not_ his bedroom. He stirred uncomfortably in the embarrassingly thin gown, rearranging the crisp sheets that could only belong to a hospital.

A muggle hospital.

Harry shut his eyes tightly and brought his good hand up to shield his eyes from the intense lights above him. The only sound which dared to break the silence was the steady beeping of a machine he could only guess was a heart monitor. It wasn't long before he began to register a dull throb of pain and became aware of the bandages wrapped tightly around his right arm. He could also tell there was something wrapped around his torso; when he shifted he could feel the fabric brush against his welts uncomfortably.

Shifting his focus from his bandage-clad injuries he glanced around the apparently empty room for a short while, immediately realizing his glasses were on a nightstand a bit away from the bed and he couldn't make much out anyways. Besides what he presumed was standard equipment the room seemed strangely empty. Harry always imagined a hospital being a bit more busy. He thought of nurses bustling around, perhaps an old wheezing roommate behind a flimsy curtain. But he didn't have a roommate.

Here, in this room, it was quiet. Like the world had stopped turning. He eyed the darkening sky through the window to the left of his bed warily; how long had he been unconscious?

A thin tube ran from his arm to an IV beside the bed, blood slowly draining from the bag. There was also a yellow rose in a vase on the windowsill, which Harry found odd since it was more than likely whoever found him didn't know him personally. The damp robe he'd stolen was draped over the chair beside his bed. Harry hoped against hope they didn't go through it— or he'd have a lot of explaining to do. Or they might just look at him strangely. After all, what was a stick to a building full of muggles?

Inspection turning inward, Harry tried hopelessly to sort through his blurred, distorted memories of what happened before he'd been kidnapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Why couldn't he remember anything?

Harry sudden thought (an epiphany, really) made him freeze, gripping the sheets tightly… it had to be a memory charm. That was the only thing that could explain it. He slumped back into the pillows piled behind him, clearly frustrated.

A key rattled noisily in the door, effectively pulling Harry out of his reverie. He hadn't even realized the door was locked.

After a moment a rather plump nurse strode in, her wavy black hair swinging back and forth in it's ponytail with each step. She pushed a small cart filled with numerous medical supplies Harry didn't recognize. Apparently she hadn't realized he was even conscious until he spoke to her.

"Where am I?" Harry winced at the scratchy, almost raspy sound of his own voice. His eyes strayed to the large needle resting atop the cart, which was currently at his bedside.

"Oh! Good afternoon, sir! You're at St. Mary's Hospital; a couple brought you in early this morning. They've been incredibly worried— though they insist they don't know you." He cringed when she began to unravel the bandages enveloping his right arm. "Are you in pain?" Harry tried not to think about how her bubbly voice grated on his nerves, focusing his attention on what she was doing.

"A little."

At his words she paused to grab the needle from the cart. Harry simply averted his eyes, concentrating on the night sky just beyond the window. He was surprised he hadn't really felt the needle pierce his skin before she placed it back on the cart and resumed working the bandages on his arm loose. When she finally peeled the soiled gauze off and placed them in a nearby waste basket, a sea of shades ranging from black to pale yellow greeted him. He felt sick to his stomach just _looking_ at his mutilated arm.

He found himself wishing he hadn't been found by muggles. If only he'd been taken to St. Mungo's…

He could feel the sharp sting of tears before he even closed his eyes, sinking further into the pillows propping him up— all but wishing they'd open up and swallow him. Whatever she injected him with was beginning to take effect, but even in his drowsy state he could feel her rubbing something cool over his wounds. Any pain he may have felt was numbed to the point that he could hardly feel it by the time she asked him to turn over.

How he hated muggle hospitals…

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

When Harry came to once again, waves of nausea washed over him— probably a result of all the muggle drugs they were feeding him. He could vaguely remember reading something about the negative affects of drugs, such as the ones they were injecting him with daily, on wizards.

But what could he possibly do? Tell them he was a wizard?

From their point of view his condition was only getting worse than it was when he'd first arrived, which obviously ruled out the option of checking himself out. There was no way for him to get help. The only thing that may be of use to him was a phone on a table at his bedside. Alas, that too was useless entirely due to the fact that he didn't know anyone's phone number. Hermione's number would've been especially useful, he was sure they would help a good friend of their daughter… not that it mattered now. Instead of wallowing in his sorrow, he gazed at the now wilting rose on the windowsill, silently wondering why anyone would even bother.

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Harry tried to remember how he'd managed to fall into harm's way yet again. He could clearly remember packing away everything for Hogwarts, sending Hedwig to reach the school on her own, and even Dudley's snide remarks! The car ride to King's Cross was where everything went blank. Harry frowned, confusion evident on his face. What could've happened during the miserable ride to the train station that would leave him in the clutches of a Death Eater?

A gentle rapping on the door pulled him from his muddled thoughts. He silently wondered who would actually knock on the door— nurses usually just strolled in.

In walked a couple, they seemed to be quite startled that he was even conscious. A short, thin woman with deep, wavy auburn hair and startling green eyes that could only be the result of color contacts came to stand beside his bed, smiling warmly. A man who was presumably her husband took to standing by the window, watching him with interest. His rich brown hair was slick with gel, parted and neatly combed to the side, leaving his hazel eyes in plain view.

"How are you feeling? The nurses told us you woke up a couple of days ago, but we didn't expect you to be awake. We were so worried when we found you—collapsed by the road, and all." Her Irish accent was so thick that he had trouble understanding her; Harry stared at her silently, contemplating whether or not he should answer her. The man pulled a fresh rose, carefully wrapped in plastic, from inside his jacket to replace the wilted one on the windowsill.

"Why do you even bother?" Harry finally questioned, fixing the man with a stare. He tried not to pay attention to his sore throat, swallowing several times to rid himself of the burning sensation.

"We only wish for you to get well," He responded a little too cheerfully for Harry's liking. "We have a son of our own; I imagine he's a few years younger than you. I can't even think of what we would do if something like this ever happened to him. I guess you could say that's why we care so much. I'm sorry but we have to being going, though. We only planned on staying a minute; we hardly expected you to be awake."

Anything they said after that was lost to him; he'd already slipped into sweet oblivion…

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

Harry blinked slowly, staring blankly at the ceiling. Merlin, how he wanted to sleep... insomnia's a bitch. He shifted for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, eyes drifting shut in a forlorn attempt to doze off. He knew it was pointless; he'd already had so many restless nights— it was a wonder he could keep his eyes open.

It had to be those damned drugs.

Minutes turned into hours, hours into days. Day and night seemed to fuse together to form a blurred version of something akin to reality. Everyday the couple who rescued him came and went, as did several nurses and doctors. Most people appeared as distorted figures in his haze of drowsiness. He was positive they were talking either to or about him, but he couldn't concentrate enough to understand what they were saying. He suspected it was his unfocused gaze and response (or lack thereof) that ultimately drove them all away after only a few minutes.

The silence the room had been draped in was unnerving. That was what really bothered him. He wished for something— _anything_— to break the silence which constantly surrounded him. It was like an annoying buzz from the depths of his mind which never ceased. They'd decided days ago he no longer needed to be monitored around the clock, leaving the room devoid of most equipment. He was basically on a plateau. His condition hadn't gotten any worse, but he hadn't gotten any better either. He sighed softly and shifted once more, blocking his view of the intense sunlight that was beginning to bathe the room in light.

Another sleepless night.

Harry didn't even realize anyone was in the room with him at first; he was content with staring fixedly at a spot on the wall. He involuntarily flinched when a familiar face appeared in his field of vision. This person stood out against all the rest, bringing Harry out of the trance he'd been stuck in for days.

Harry watched wearily as her hand inched out towards his face, questioning. Her hand was so close; he could feel the heat radiating from it. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak… he couldn't even think. It was as if he was frozen for a moment in time. Harry hastily withdrew from her touch as if she'd burned him.

He couldn't— he **_wouldn't_** let anyone touch him. It was too soon.

Her face bore an almost hurt look when he pulled away. Harry struggled to keep his face neutral and push his memories to the back of his mind. He wasn't sure he'd be able to face her now without completely falling apart. He wasn't ready for this. To see his friends. What would they think of him if they knew he'd allowed himself to be... _raped_?

They would pity him… think he was weak. How could he be their savior if he couldn't even defend himself against a rogue Death Eater?

"How'd you find me, Hermione?" The sound of his own voice stunned him, sounding strange to his own ears. Though talking left his throat feeling raw and scratchy his voice was steady and almost languid, the complete opposite of the turmoil within.

He cursed himself for letting his thoughts wander to something so trivial and focused his attention on the silent woman standing before him. He stared at her curiously, she looked quite different from the last time he'd seen her. Over the summer she'd filled out quite nicely— it was more obvious in the muggle clothes she was disguised in. Her once bushy mane was now noticeably tame and a bit shorter, just brushing against her shoulders in soft waves. She even looked a few inches taller from where he was laying.

There was that annoying buzz again… how Harry hated silence.

Hermione stood still for a few moments, seeming to search his soul with that simple gaze. The only warning he had was the slightly glazed look of her eyes before she literally pounced on him, pulling him into the tightest hug he'd had in a while. He unconsciously tensed, hissing at the pressure on his already sore ribs, not to mention the protests from so much weight his tender back.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!"

He wrinkled his nose at the hair tickling his face, ribs aching fiercely from the weight settled upon his chest. Where was that annoying nurse when you needed her?

"If I hadn't found you when I did, it might've been too late! You could be dead by now!" She sobbed into his shoulder, her tears drenching the thin hospital gown. Harry tried to find the strength to tell her it was getting difficult to breathe, but she didn't give him the chance. She pulled away slowly and sat on the edge of his bed, mumbling an apology and daintily wiping her tears on her sleeve. Harry settled for giving her an odd look.

"How long have you been here?" For the first time since she'd entered the room Hermione spoke calmly.

"I'm not sure… maybe a week? I've been out of it for days."

"We were all so worried about you. I've been searching for you high and low ever since your trunk was found on the train. We thought maybe you'd sent it ahead, but when you didn't show…" Hermione only shook her head sadly, as if trying to clear her mind, eyes glistening with tears once more. It took her a moment to compose herself again, "We need to go to St. Mungo's— or Hogwarts at the very least. You need medical attention soon… the medicine they've been giving you here will only make you weaker until…" Her voice broke on the last word and she sniffed slightly.

"I'm not going to St. Mungo's."

She extended her hand to Harry like she knew he would say that anyways, "Come on, we've got to hurry."

Harry looked at her warily, shifting uncomfortably. Part of him wanted to stay. It would be so much easier to just stay here and let himself die… but he had to remember that he wasn't just living for himself anymore. He was living for the sake of the entire Wizarding world in its. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't even consider going with her; what was the point of living after—?

He slid his hand into hers, gripping her small hand in his own instinctively, hoping she wouldn't notice that he was trembling. Harry busied himself with slipping cautiously out of the bed, careful not to aggravate his wounds. Lost in the moment, it took him a while to realize why she was staring so intently at his forearm. Harry gently tugged his hand free, wrapping his arms around his middle in a protective manner to hide the dark scabbing.

"What happened to your arm?" Hermione questioned softly, brushing stray hairs behind her ear in a nervous habit. "When I asked them what happened to you at the front desk they wouldn't give me a straight answer."

Harry tried to swallow the lump forming in the back of his throat. "I'll tell you later… l-let's just get out of here." He lowered his eyes, afraid they'd give away the truth.

He knew he'd never tell her.

Hermione looked as if she wanted to say something else, but she simply nodded. She began digging through the messenger bag he just realized she was carrying with her. She handed him a plain white shirt and black jeans, obviously a disguise, "I brought you some clothes to wear out of the hospital. I wasn't sure if you had anything else to wear and they're probably the wrong size, but it was the best I could do."

Harry thanked her profusely; grateful he wouldn't have to wear the oversized robe filled with so many unwanted memories. While he changed she began searching the insides of the robe draped over the chair. Pleased that the clothes weren't too loose on him, Hermione held out the worn wand for him. "I know you're not used to using this wand, but we can't just leave it here… and you might need to defend yourself." He quickly shoved the wand into his back pocket, hiding it from view with the slightly ill-fitting shirt.

The trip to Hogwarts proved to be a rather uneventful one. They took a cab to King's Cross where, unfortunately, they had to wait well over an hour for the next train to come. Of course, once they were comfortably on the train, Harry promptly fell asleep due to exhaustion.

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

Unconsciously feeling the weight of someone's eyes on him, Harry shifted uncomfortably on the stiff bed. He groaned at the unexpected glare of the sun that threatened to wrench him from the safe haven only sleep could provide. Next to the bed a chair scrapped noisily across the floor, alerting the somnolent boy to someone's presence. Harry was content to just lay there until he fell back asleep but curiosity began to eat away at his exhaustion. It urged him to find out who was in the room with him— who so desperately didn't want to be seen.

Half-lidded eyes barely caught a glimpse of the blonde before he was gone. Through his fatigue Harry blinked in confusion; he _had_ to be dreaming.

"Finally awake are we, Mr. Potter?"

Harry visibly flinched at the voice that startled him from his thoughts, accompanied by a most unwanted hand on his arm. He quickly jerked out of reach, the deafening sound of his heart pounding in his ears, somehow ending up on the floor in his fit of panic. She looked like she had half a mind to help him back to bed, but thought better of it when he only flinched at her approach. The worried eyes of Madam Pomfrey stared down at Harry's shaking form, "… Back to bed with you, now. Excuse me while I inform Dumbledore that you're awake." She stiffly walked into her office.

Flushing with embarrassment, Harry idly listened to the hum of hushed voices from Madam Pomfrey's office while he climbed back onto the bed. His thoughts wandered back to Michael of their own accord as he climbed back onto the stiff hospital bed. Since the…_ incident_ he hadn't had much time to actually stop and think about every that'd happened.

All he wanted to do was forget… but something about the whole situation irked him.

If the Death Eater was really serious about holding him captive, how was it that he escaped so easily? He didn't realize it at the time but thinking back on it made him realize something. It was all too easy. A Death Eater would make sure his captive _stays_ captive. A Death Eater would never leave his wand lying about so carelessly. A Death Eater's lair would be well protected. A Death Eater—

"Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore's warm voice drew Harry from his thoughts. "How're you feeling? Quite a few people have missed you the past two weeks. Not only has the school, but the entire Wizarding world has been in a frenzy due to your absence."

At this new information Harry perked up a bit. He'd really been missing for two full weeks?

"I apologize for our incompetence… so much could've been prevented if we'd thought to search the muggle world as well. Be sure to thank Ms. Granger— without her it's not likely you would've survived at all."

Harry kept his eyes trained on his hands, which were neatly folded in his lap, vaguely wondering what would've happened if Hermione hadn't show up when she did. Would he have died peacefully in his sleep? Or would he have been in agony until his very last conscious second?

Honestly speaking, the latter sounded more fitting for the Boy-Who-Lived.

"… I'm sure you're glad to know Poppy has flushed all the drugs out of your system; she had a bit of trouble with that when you first arrived. And the scars... Poppy couldn't remove them; something about the way the muggles healed them..."

Harry tuned out Dumbledore's rambling so he could get a better look at his 'scars.' While his forearm was no longer the sea of various hues and flaking scabs it was when he last saw it, Michael's name certainly stood out. The name stared back at him in a hideous shade of pink, still as bold as it was the day it was carved into his skin. He glowered at his arm in disgust; the least they could do was get rid of such obvious reminders.

"When can I leave?"

Dumbledore paused, a look of surprise etched onto his aged face, apprehension creeping into his dull blue eyes. It seemed oddly out of place on the old man; Harry was so accustomed to seeing those eyes twinkling and full of life. "As soon as you're feeling well enough, I suppose. However, before you leave I would like to ask you some questions about exactly where you've been these past two weeks as well as the curious... _scar_ on your arm. Ms. Granger has already informed me that you were checked into the hospital for nine days. So, the question is: where were you the other five days?"

Bowing his head to conceal the resentment he could feel bubbling to the surface, Harry slid off the bed indignantly. He clenched his fists tightly as an uneasy feeling settled itself in the pit of his stomach. After such a traumatizing experience he needed time to readjust to school life, repress the raw emotions from such an emotional roller coaster. Why should he have to tell Dumbledore anything? It would be like sticking his finger into an open wound! He just wanted to be alone. Was that too much to ask?

With his defenses firmly in place, Harry mumbled that he was leaving and made his way to the door as calmly as he could manage. He didn't care to notice the troubled blue eyes that followed his shaking form out of the Hospital Wing.

"The password is _Attinet Sanitas_." For a moment Harry paused outside the door, thoroughly puzzled, until he realized Dumbledore was calling out the common room password.

Pushing his anger aside, Harry tried to concentrate on more important matters— like what time it was. The halls were silent and empty, causing his footsteps to echo eerily as he walked towards the kitchens. He wasn't ready to face everyone just yet.

Drawing his lip between his teeth in thought, Harry slowed his brisk walk to a more languid pace. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach urging him to believe that something terrible was about to happen… it was unsettling to say the least. He felt as if he was on the brink of sanity and the fates were incessantly trying to shove him off when he least expected it. Harry wasn't sure how much more he could take.

So sitting on the cold kitchen floor, eating the food the house elves had graciously supplied him with, he couldn't help but wonder if being at Hogwarts was truly the best thing for him right now. He was almost positive tomorrow would be a living hell… people staring at him, whispering incessantly, not to mention the slew of work he had to make up.

It wasn't like he had much of a choice anyway.


	3. The Show Must Go On

**T**itle: Gravity

**A**uthor: Yaoi no Megami

**R**ating: R

**D**isclaimer: I don't own it. Get over it.

**W**ord Count: 3,514

**S**ummary: What will the Boy Who Lived do when the very darkness he tried so desperately to escape returns with a vengeance to tear at the crevices of his mind, ravage his body, and engulf his very soul? PreHBP. Eventual HPDM.

**W**arnings: Torture, Non-consensual sex/rape…

**N**otes: You guys are so discouraging. Two reviews. I am now thoroughly depressed. Please, I beg of you, go to my **livejournal**! The link can be found in my profile.****

**C**heers to: FroBoy and angel74 for reviewing.

-:- .:. -:- _On and on, does anybody know what we are living for? _-:- .:. -:-

**Chapter Three: The Show Must Go On **

The next morning Harry pushed his food around on his plate out of sheer boredom, ignoring the obvious stares in his direction and urgent whispers surrounding him. He tuned out the fierce debate between Ron and Hermione in favor of observing the Head Table, his gaze lingering slightly on the empty seat where the DADA teacher normally sat.

"Hermione, did Professor Martinelli resign?" Harry asked, attempting to seem hopeful for her sake.

She looked a bit startled but Harry couldn't distinguish whether it was from being so rudely interrupted or the fact that he was actually initiating a conversation. Still eyeing him oddly, she responded, "Yes, I thought you knew, she's been replaced by Professor Stryker. He's actually an exceptional teacher compared to that old hag…"

Unable to prevent the snicker that passed his lips, Harry let her return to her speech to Ron on house elf rights. Last year DADA was his favorite class, Professor Martinelli didn't do anything all year except read cheesy muggle romance novels. It irked Hermione beyond all reason; the only thing the old woman had them do was read the DADA textbook from cover to cover over the course of the year— taking notes and all. Of course the majority of the students spent their time working on forgotten homework or goofing off with their friends, but Professor Martinelli was none the wiser. He could only hope the new teacher would be as lenient…

Harry pulled himself out of his reverie when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Blinking uncertainly when the conversation around him abruptly died away, he turned to come face to face with his Head of House.

"Good morning, Professor McGonagall." Harry eyed her curiously, wondering what he could've possibly done to receive such attention. In response she handed him a piece of parchment he recognized as his timetable, a small smile gracing her face.

"It's good to have you back, Mr. Potter."

Nodding in recognition and thanks, Harry turned back to his uneaten breakfast, peering at his timetable curiously. His eyes went straight towards today's schedule, Thursday, only to sigh in disappointment; his first class of the day was Double NEWT Potions. After Potions he had NEWT Transfiguration, lunch, followed by a free period, and NEWT Defense Against the Dark Arts as the final class of the day. He had to congratulate himself on having _some_ luck; after all he managed to get out of the Hospital Wing just in time for the weekend, not to mention the fact that it was a Hogsmeade weekend.

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

Shivering unconsciously from the frigid dungeon air, Harry tried hopelessly to focus on the potion he was supposed to be concocting. After Snape entered— robes billowing behind him as usual— he briskly spelled the directions for a standard sleeping draught onto the board and assigned them partners. He proceeded to bark at them to get started while he began to grade papers with a zeal that could only mean _somebody_ was failing. As if trying to prove he was in a truly foul mood, Snape paired Harry with Blaise Zabini, who was known to be the worst potion maker out of all the Slytherins.

To tell the truth, Harry was fairing much better than he would have with Malfoy. The dark haired boy, much quieter than Harry anticipated, seemed to be pensive throughout the entire class, like he was in a world of his own. Perhaps that was his problem. All in all, there wasn't much work for Harry to do; even after years of Potions he still hadn't improved much. Zabini proposed that Harry could stir the potion while he took care of the ingredients— which was fine with Harry because the instructions for this potion seemed rather complicated.

Much to Harry's delight, everything appeared to be going fine. They had several close calls, but with Harry going over the instructions continually, he managed to prevent most of the mishaps that would've normally occurred. Their potion was the correct color, Snape wasn't breathing down his neck (though Harry figured it was only a matter of time,) and Harry had yet to get into a fight with anyone. Even Malfoy seemed unnervingly calm.

Harry watched anxiously as Zabini dropped the last ingredient into the simmering potion: chopped asphodel roots. The change was immediate. The potion began bubbling unpleasantly and gradually changed from light blue to a troubling violet.

"What did you _do_?" Harry hissed, just loud enough for the inattentive boy to hear.

He looked back to the instructions and bit back a groan. _Crushed_ asphodel roots… not chopped! One bubble popped particularly loudly, piercing the near-silence in the Potions classroom and gaining the attention of several students close by. Harry blushed scarlet, inwardly groaning in defeat at the obvious failed attempt to make the simple sleeping draught.

Harry wasted no time in ducking under the desk, pretending to tie his shoe laces as the potion bubbled ominously. A few seconds later a loud explosion sounded, closely followed by the splatter of their potion across the ceiling.

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

Feeling oddly content approaching the final class of the day, Harry jogged to catch up with Ron and Hermione before they made it to Defense Against the Dark Arts. After the explosion in Advanced Potions, things weren't exactly what you'd call pretty.

"Where were you at lunch, mate?"

"Zabini made our potion explode and Snape had us clean up the mess without our wands. Let me tell you, it is _not_ easy to half scrape, half scrub a congealed purple potion off the ceiling…" At this the red head burst out laughing, drawing the attention of people in the hallway before Harry and Hermione slowly joined in as they neared the classroom.

However, upon entering Harry stood in the doorway of the DADA classroom, frozen in shock, unable to tear his eyes away from their new _teacher_. Fate certainly had a way of throwing curveballs his way didn't it…?

Ron and Hermione's laughter died down as they turned to stare at him questioningly when they realized he was no longer following them.

"Harry?"

Hermione's voice sounded faint in comparison to the resonating thud of his erratic heartbeat in his head. He tried, without avail, to swallow the lump rapidly forming in the back of his throat, looking at the man he thought he'd never have to lay eyes on again. In a daze, he allowed Hermione to tug him by the hand to the nearest seat.

"What is it?" She whispered quietly, if not a bit anxiously.

Her voice was tight with anxiety and the alarm she felt was quite clear in her eyes. Harry could see Ron take the empty seat in front of them, gazing back at him in worry. But he wasn't focused on them. Sitting behind the desk in front of the class, an all too familiar pair of amethyst eyes watched him smugly.

Watching him as if he'd planned it all along.

It was just like the first day Harry saw him. Still as confident as ever, his feet resting atop the desk with the wooden chair tilted dangerously, shoes glinting at him under the bright sunlight streaming in through the window. Dressed in expensive black robes not unlike the ones he was wearing… _that day_. Rich, honey bangs fell messily into his eyes, though he made no move to brush them away, and his eyes shone with a predatory gleam Harry had come to know oh-so-well.

Harry mindlessly took out a piece parchment and tried to appear busy taking notes as soon as the lesson began. He caught himself unconsciously tugging down sleeve on more than one occasion as the lesson dragged on. The class stretched into an eternity for Harry, full of systematic nudges from Hermione and concerned glances from Ron. Fear coursed through Harry's veins of its own accord, constantly replenished through subtle brushes against him and devious smirks in his direction. His body was taut as a bowstring, only tremors of trepidation disturbing his marble-like appearance. It was much like being in a trance— he couldn't summon the strength to move or speak… his pounding heart drowned out any thoughts he might have had.

He really should've seen this coming.

Anticipation filled him as the end of the period neared; Harry was glad it was the last class of the day. A familiar feeling of exhaustion had been ebbing away at his patience since the disaster in Potions. He unconsciously pushed his sleeve back a bit to trace the edge of his scar, memories still fresh in his mind.

The moment that 'Professor Stryker,' as he was apparently being called, dismissed the class Harry bolted from his seat and hastily made his way towards the door, visibly anxious to leave.

"Mr. Potter… a word?"

He froze in the doorway at Michael's words, alarms sounding in his head as the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Harry expertly ignored the students that brushed past him on their way to the Great Hall and their questioning backward glances. Slowly turning to face Michael, who was leaning casually against his cluttered desk, Harry warily made his way back into the classroom. Harry didn't like the look in his eyes— it was much too familiar. Harry kept his eyes trained on Michael's obviously taller figure as he ambled closer, stopping only a few feet before Harry.

"Did you enjoy your little _vacation_? Two weeks is an awfully long time Potter." Shifting uneasily under the intense stare of his 'professor,' Harry resolutely stepped back every time Michael nonchalantly moved forward.

"You really thought I'd give up so easily?"

Harry backed up until his back hit the cold stone wall, heart beating wildly in his chest. He could only watch with wide eyes as Michael strode closer, smirk firmly in place as he pinned him against the wall. With that suffocating presence that made him cringe pressing his freshly healed back into the wall, Harry could only avert his eyes so he didn't have to look into those laughing amethyst eyes. Laughing at him for thinking it was over, for thinking he could really get away. He searched desperately for a way out, struggling against his captor with no avail. Honestly, what kind of match was he for a man a full head taller than him?

"Do you think I'm _stupid_? Did you honestly think you'd never see me again? I knew you'd escape before long… and come running right back here," Michael hissed vehemently in his ear. The other man's breath ghosted over his skin, causing a shiver to run down his spine unpleasantly. He paused to compose himself and Harry's quick, uneven breathing seemed to echo in the quiet room.

"Oh, the wonders a simple Polyjuice Potion can work…" Michael muttered cryptically, a chuckle of private amusement escaping his lips. Running his fingers down the side of Harry's face gently, ignoring the way Harry tried to cringe away from his touch, Michael fixed him with an intense stare.

He abruptly gripped Harry's chin with bruising force and tilted his face towards the light, "You might make a lovely present yet…"

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

Harry stumbled into the Room of Requirement, tripping over his own feet in his haste, blinking away the tears that were steadily forming. Biting his lip in a futile attempt to prevent a sob from escaping, he gratefully sank into the warm sheets of the bed in the center of the room. Trembling uncontrollably, he slipped beneath the black sheets— his body felt warm enough but he felt inexplicably numb all the same. His eyes stung at the onslaught of a fresh wave of tears.

Fate certainly had a unique way of toying with him.

It was funny how you could so suddenly be overwhelmed by memories… no matter what he did he was forever reminded of the past. Was he really expected to look at Michael everyday? To remember the unspeakable things he'd suffered at the hands of the Death Eater day after day?

The solid ground his world once rested upon was crumbling beneath his feet, as it had been since Sirius' death two years ago, and he was finally reaching his breaking point. He had so many scars… wounds on the surface as well as beneath the skin that would never heal, that would continue to torment him for as long as he lived.

There had to be a solution. There was always a solution. Had he finally backed himself into a corner?

No. He couldn't accept that.

Dumbledore. He had to go to Dumbledore. He'd always helped him before, right? His gut clenched at the idea of having to tell him everything that happened a mere two weeks ago. Harry had a terrible feeling that it wouldn't matter, even if he _did_ speak to Dumbledore about his dilemma. Something about the way Michael spoke to him, he was so smug, like he had nothing to worry about.

It wasn't clear how long Harry had been the Room of Requirement, clutching the sheets while his shoulders shook with silent sobs, thoughts racing.

Dumbledore. He would speak to Dumbledore in the morning.

With that thought he slipped into a fitful sleep.

-:- .:. -:- .:. -:-

When Harry awoke, after a quickly muttered _"Tempus"_ he realized that he'd already missed breakfast as well half of his first class; History of Magic. But, Harry reassured himself, even if by some miracle Professor Binns _did_ realize he wasn't in class, Harry was confident that he'd be excused.

After a quick trip to the kitchens to sate his hunger (after all he'd skipped lunch and dinner the previous day,) he anxiously walked towards the Headmaster's office. It had taken him nearly 10 minutes to guess the password— Tangerine Taffy Tart— and travel up the steps until he was standing before a door, attempting to muster the courage to knock.

Harry took a calming deep breath, trying to prepare himself mentally for what he was about to reveal. He was more than uncomfortable with the idea of having to talk to the Headmaster about what had actually occurred during his absence from school a few short weeks ago, but it was something he needed to do. Despite the feeling of unease rising in his chest, he forced himself to raise a hand to knock firmly on the wooden door. At the faint consent of entrance which drifted through the thick door, Harry complied, albeit a bit unwillingly.

The old man seemed vaguely surprised to see him— perhaps because he should be in class— but welcomed him inside warmly nevertheless, neatly tucking some papers he'd been leaning over into a drawer. Dumbledore pushed his half spectacles up the bridge of his nose and offered Harry a lemon drop, which he politely declined.

"What can I do for you, my boy?"

Harry didn't know where to start. Color rose to his cheeks at his own lack of response and a thousand possibilities of conversation starters raced through his mind. None of them seemed appealing. Staring at the Headmaster's intertwined fingers seemed to be the best way to go, until he spoke again.

"Is there a reason you're not in class?" Dumbledore asked in what he probably thought was a gentle tone. It only came off as impatient to Harry though.

"I overslept." Came the absently mumbled response, a pregnant silence following in its wake. "I— I wanted to…" Harry began weakly, searching for the right words to tell his sordid story. "That is," he fumbled over his words again, taking a deep breath to quell the anxiety coursing through his veins.

"It all started on the ride to King's Cross…" Once he started, he couldn't stop. The worlds just kept tumbling from his lips with a life of their own. Speaking about it wasn't easy of course, but it did feel good to let out all the pent up emotions.

Dumbledore lapsed into silence after hearing Harry's account of the previous two weeks, drawing his hands into his lap before letting his poignant blue eyes to rest on Harry. "I'm afraid that's impossible, my boy." Before Harry could even endeavor to protest, Dumbledore held up a hand to silence him. "While it is a fascinating story," here he paused to look at him meaningfully, "None of the things you've told me quite add up."

Feeling his gut clench at the unpleasant turn of the conversation, the feeling he had last night intensified tenfold at the Headmaster's words. He stared at the old man he'd once considered a friend in disbelief.

"While I don't doubt that a Death Eater kidnapped you or any of the things you've told me about the past two weeks, I'm afraid you must be mistaken. Perhaps the Death Eater simply reminds you of Professor Stryker? Perhaps a spell the Death Eater cast on you misleads you to think that your Professor did these things to you? Among other things, Professor Stryker arrived at Hogwarts approximately two weeks before the term began and has only left grounds on two separate occasions to run errands for less than an hour. I hardly think that is enough time for what you've described to take place. It is highly unlikely that Professor Stryker is a Death Eater as you say; throughout his time here countless people have had opportunities to see his Dark Mark and it has not been reported. Furthermore, I have seen his unmarred arm myself; I have no reason to believe he is a Death Eater. You have absolutely no proof on which to stake your claim, Mr. Potter."

Harry's cheeks began to flush in anger and embarrassment as he noticed the subtle change back to his surname. This was what he got for going out on a limb to ask for _help_? "But— I… Look at the bruises on my face! Do you think I did this to myself?" Harry sputtered indignantly, hands clenching the armrests of the chair tightly.

True, the dark purple bruises on his jaw were peculiarly shaped like someone's fingers, but the Headmaster seemed to brush it off. "Of course not, Mr. Potter." At Harry's hopeful look, he quickly continued, "However, anyone could have given you those bruises. I can't dismiss the first competent DADA teacher we've had in years just because of your accusations."

Harry's knuckles were white from gripping the arms of the chair at this point, struggling to keep himself in check. Through clenched teeth he managed to grind out, "So then you're saying that you think I'm lying."

It was more of a statement than a question.

Harry took Dumbledore's silence as a yes and rose from his seat without a moment's hesitation, glaring resentfully at the Headmaster before turning on his heel and storming out of the office as quickly as his feet could carry him. Angry tears of frustration coursed down his cheeks unbridled as he wandered the halls aimlessly, ducking into empty classrooms every time a student ambled by. It had to be time for lunch. A frown was etched onto his flushed, tearstained face as he reflected on his situation.

How could Dumbledore brush him off so easily? He just told the Headmaster that he was tortured, _raped_ even! He didn't respond with compassion or concern, just cold logic. It wasn't like him at all. Something strange was going on and Harry was positive that Michael was involved.

How did he do it? That was the question of the hour.

Without warning, someone tightly wrenched his arm until he stumbled into a dimly lit classroom, flush against a hard body. The blood drained from his face when he found himself staring into a familiar pair of smug heliotrope eyes, fear gripping his heart as he struggled to free himself from the vice like grip around his waist. Harry recoiled when Michael bent down, and for a moment cold terror gripped him. Harry was positive he was about to kiss him but instead his lips only grazed his cheek.

"Didn't I tell you it wouldn't be that easy?"

It came out as a harsh whisper, ghosting over his ear before Michael bit down hard enough to draw blood. From there his tongue trailed along his jaw line, nipping painfully at the delicate skin, and a hand slipped into his messy hair to hold him in place as he was forcibly kissed. For a moment the hand around his waist disappeared, only to slide inside his robes a second later. Harry couldn't help but wince, suppressing a shudder when Michael's cold fingers slipped beneath his shirt so he could rake his nails up and down Harry's back.

Harry was startled and relieved when he finally pulled away, withdrawing so quickly that Harry's knees buckled and he landed on the floor without Michael supporting his weight. Michael smiled down at his kneeling figure, a twisted sort of affection shining in his eyes.

"You'd better get used to being on your knees."


End file.
